Scenes From The Good Life
by Christoph Andretti
Summary: Life is a tragedy. Life is a soap opera. But Mostly, Life Is A Sitcom. EPISODE 1: DOPING ANONYMOUS. Russia is banned from the Olympics! Yuri is depressed, Victor is inconsolable, and Yuuri has to pick up the pieces. Sequel to Detroit And The Good Life With You!
1. Episode 0: Prologue Kinda

"Shut up and don't talk to me."

Yuuri Katsuki did not need more stress in his life.

His fiancee and his temperamental rival (or was it friend) were enough of a headache on a good day. He didn't need the added stress of being sociable and dealing with other human beings.

A recent diet gave Yuuri lithe muscles and slender, flexible build was still apt for skating. Okay, he had to admit he ran out of breath sooner than normal. And there was no chance in hell he would be able to elevate himself on the ice to the degree Yurio had accomplished. But he was close to his thirties by now! He had a good excuse for being slower on the ice than normal.

However, he knew his energy was best used in pleasing Victor. He honestly tried as hard as he could. The past month, he had tried to clean the apartment. he waxed the floors and everything. Unfortunately, the white marble tarnished easily from wood polish, so that was an extra grand they had to spend on repairing those damages. When he attempted to have an electric fireplace installed, the battery-powered burners exploded. Victor forgot to remember to take the packing peanuts out of the fireplace, and it ignited into pile of black soot that stained the white carpet in his bedroom.

Specifically, Yuuri breathed in the clean, brisk chilled air that swirled around the Detroit Ice Rink. A few people sauntered around the ice, chatting about their days or trying out a simple three-turn. Ever since Yurio arrived, people in the city had become more attached to ice skating.

Except for this kid in front of him.

Skating lessons. Yuuri shivered at the thought of teaching small children the art of figure skating. Not because he couldn't handle the occasional bloody nose or cries. Victor wanted to play for keeps. If he wasn't coaching someone on he way to a Grand Prix Championship or Olympic gold, he would not even show up. Sure, the love of figure skating was great in him, but his priorities had changed in his retirement.

 _You'll love it_ , Victor chortled. _Giving people the joy of skating is one of the greatest gifts!_

Then again, two hundred dollars for a one hour lesson was a small price to pay.

His first skating lesson was devoted to a boy of seventeen. His face wore an eternal frown on his smooth, tanned face. Midnight black hair neatly structured the top of his head, stopping just short of his strong jawline. Based on the way his black t-shirt and black sweatpants clung to his frame, Yuuri could tell he was quite athletic. If anything, his arms were well-defined and bulked up as well as any skater he knew. His posture was pin straight, as if he was a soldier ready to commence battle. He appeared rigid and stoic, which conflicted Victor considering his height. The top of the kid's head barely reached his chin, but his poise made him look intimidating. Overall, he was a very handsome young man even though he looked like he wanted to kill everything around him.

However, when he first saw the kid, it was not his short stature that he noticed. It was his eyes. His eyes scared him. They were black. Not cocoa like Yuuri's. Pitch black, like oil leaking from a satellite in space. Half-lidded and apathetic, they betrayed no emotion. Why Victor could not have gotten the kid's group for his first lesson was beyond him.

His nametag hanging from the side of his black sweatshirt spelled the word "Archer." A weird name for the kid, but a unique one that he wouldn't forget. He appeared to be a typical moody teenager. Although he admitted the way he pushed Victor from him to leave the rink was a tad over the top.

"But you still haven't learned the snowplow stop," Yuuri said.

The boy climbed off the rink and ripped off the laces on his new Jackson boots. The black leather shined with a pristine sheen as he yanked them off his foot. "The hour is over anyway," his voice, low but smooth, barked out a terse response as he latched on his black sneakers.

"Your parents aren't picking you up for another few minutes."

"A few minutes I get to be alone."

Yuuri plastered on a nervous smiled. He sat on the ledge of the rink and crossed his arms. His white long sleeve ruffled around the elbows, he leaned on the toe picks that dug into the rubber around the ice. Looking down at his student, he examined him as he pulled away at the laces. The entire lesson was a disaster from the start. The boy, unused to the finesses of skating, fell almost every time he attempted a movement. He at least learned how to stand upright during their hour.

The boy looked up, the frown in his face deepening. "What?"

"You're taking them off wrong," Yuuri pointed out. "You're supposed to stretch them out and then unhook them."

He said nothing and continued to take the skates off the same way. Yuuri looked around the rink. It was mostly empty except for them.

"So," Yuuri trailed off. "I've never given anyone lessons before."

"No. Really?" The boy said in a terse, sarcastic tone.

"It's not something I've thought of," Yuuri said as he stroked his own cheek. "But it's great exercise even if you aren't going competitive. And it really helps with the heart as far as blood pressure goes."

The boy looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "I'm seventeen. I'm not worried about that."

Yuuri was always a little awkward around people much younger than him. Yurio had told him that a number of times. He cleared his throat, pulling down the sleeves on his wool red sweater. Moving his legs around in a swinging motion, Yuuri hummed to himself.

"What did you think though? Skating?"

The boy bore his stare into Yuuri, contemplating the question. Fans wheezed out cool air as a zamboni fired up in the corner. It began to rumble over the ice like a large cruise ship sailing past a seaport.

"You can be honest," Yuuri smiled. "I'm not an expert at this part of the job yet. But maybe you could open up and tell me."

"Fuck off."

Yuuri blinked, taken aback by the short outburst. His eyebrows furrowed in an angry response. He shot up like a piston, glaring at Yuuri with he intensity of the bright spotlights in the rafters. He took a step forward closing the gap between them.

"I didn't chose to be here or faceplant a thousand fucking times today, moron." He said, his peppermint breath wafting into Victor's nose. "If those shitty stepparents didn't force me to do this, I wouldn't be getting myself a bloody nose."

"But Aaron, I t-."

"That's not my name, idiot," he growled. "It's Archer! And don't interrupt me. I don't need any stress relief, and I don't need you as a coach or teacher or anything. So don't ask about any of my problems, and I won't ask about yours."

He spun around and charged away. Yuuri considered the angry kid in front of him. Sure, Yurio had an attitude, but he seemed harmless after knowing him. This kid had apparently dealt with some real problems based on what his guardians had told him before the lesson.

"What were you thinking about when you were on the ice?"

He stopped in his tracks, mid-step on the stone staircase towards the exit. He looked back at Victor, a bored expression on his face while looking at the seated skater. "What?"

"On the ice? Were you thinking about your problems?"

"I was thinking about not falling and cracking my fucking head open."

Yuuri crossed his arms. "And you weren't focused on your parents o-."

"Step."

"Stepparents. You weren't focused on them or school or anything like that?"

He examined Yuuri. A long pause escalated with the increasing vibrations of the zamboni zooming past Victor from behind. The way he looked at Yuuri was strange. There was a faint hint of jealousy in his gaze with every passing second. It was like he was trying to read his mind; his limbs stone as he remained planted on the stairs.

"I guess not," he finally spat out.

With the precision and gait of a soldier, Yuuri's first student turned back around and marched up the steps.

* * *

Yuuri Katsuki was the responsible one.

That was his thought every time he paid the bills online or folded the laundry or pulled out the mail from the small aluminum boxes in the lobby on the first floor of the tall condominium building. He was the responsible adult here. He knew how to file taxes and talk to agents. At every restaurant, he left exactly fifteen percent for the waiters. The fax machine at the post office? It had never felt fingers as sure as Yuuri's, tapping on the number tabs like a guitarist picking at his six-string on his front porch.

Yes, the Japanese man had life figured out. From keeping that annoying cowlick on the back of his obsidian hair slicked back to bagging the number one figure skater in the world as a fiancee, Yuuri was surprised at just how much a timid, neurotic man from Hasetsu like himself could accomplish in a lifetime.

But when life went wrong, it went wrong. And Yuuri still had not figured out how to pick up the pieces without falling into a pile of them himself.

Then again, if Victor Nikiforov had set your kitchen on fire, you would be upset as well.

Orange flames licked the charred ceiling, scorching walls with the sirens of the alarm blaring in the spacious kitchen. Fire elevated from a large pot guzzling the aftermath of a disaster dish with the stove emanating heat. The sizzle of the burnt food muted by the alarms, sprinklers shot out of the ceiling and sprayed water around the kitchen area. Only the screeches of the man next to the stove were heard over the rushing liquid as the flames died out like the burnt streetlights outside.

Yuuri gaped at the sight. The smoldering ashes of a perfectly succulent salmon rested as a dried , black corpse in a bowl. The microwave above the stove had stripes of scorch marks lathered on the stainless steel surface.

And of course, there was Victor. Standing like a lump on a log in a lime bathrobe, stained with water and coconut oil that dried into a fine ivory powder on the tassels of his wrists. The flawless-faced, taller man with bright blue eyes looked like a lost puppy; pathetic and innocent with his gray hair frazzled from the near death experience.

He coughed out a small patch of smoke, shrinking down with slumped shoulders as the ruined food mocked him on the stove. Smoke still pillowed as the alarms shut off.

"Hello, Yuuri," Victor wheezed out.

Yuuri breathed in. "Victor," He said in a quiet voice. "Why was our kitchen on fire?"

Victor gulped. That sweet, peaceful tone always set him on the edge. It was a warning sign. "The fish caught on fire."

Yuuri took a step forward, a small splash from the puddle of water clinging onto the bottom of his cotton cerulean dress pants. His face devoid of wrinkles of stress marks, he calmly reached forward and leaned on the wooden kitchen island. "The fish decided to burn itself? It hated it's life, so it decided to come into our kitchen and burn itself."

Victor licked his lips and shifted on his spot. "Well...not exactly. I knew you had a long day today, and you always cook for us. So I decided to return the favor."

Yuuri felt his eye twitch. "Great, Victor," He squeaked. "But I think you forgot what today is?"

"Your birthday?"

Yuuri shook his head.

"Our anniversary?"

"Are we married yet?"

Victor snapped his fingers. "I got it. It's Hanukah."

"Huh?"

"Hanukah. That's the American holiday, rig-."

"It's our vacation, Victor!" Yuuri yelled. Victor shrunk back as the angry man slammed his fist on the island, causing an apple to slide off the surface and splatter onto the ground. "Our flight left two hours ago. You weren't at the airport!"

Victor scratched the back of his head. Based on the throbbing vein on Yuuri's forehead, he knew trouble was about to wallop him worse than screwing up a quadruple flip. "Our vacation? Right...that was this week?"

Yuuri looked over at the stove and gasped. Seeing the knob was still on, he flicked it off. The blue flame underneath disappeared as the burnt smell of fish invaded the air around them. Once the low hum ended, he put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, a disapproving frown pointed at the distraught Victor.

"I put the vacation on the corkboard," Yuuri pointed behind him at the corkboard pasted onto the mocha wall. Hanging on it were papers lined with schedules and dates for the household.

"You know I don't read the corkboard," Victor rushed out. "I thought it was just for pictures."

"All of our stuff is on there Victor," Yurui threw his hands up. "Meetings, deadlines, social worker visits. They're all there," Yuuri shouted. With a groan, he slammed his head onto the island, remaining face down in failure.

Victor sighed. The frustrated man before him was shortening his life span by a few years with his incessant worrying. If there was one thing Victor would like Yuuri to be, it was calm for once. It seemed that domestic life was as hard on Yuuri as the skating world could be towards him. He reached over and patted the shorter man on the shoulder, the thick fabric of his chestnut jacket scratching his fingers.

"It's going to be alright, Yuuri."

Yuuri poked his head back up, a tired expression hanging over his heavy eyelids as they dropped down over his dark brown irises. With a breath, he stood up and turned to the burnt fish on the stove.

"We can book the next flight," Victor said with a small smile. "It's no big deal."

Yuuri ran a hand through his cable-knit soft hair. He peeked out at the open expanse of the condominium's living area. The oak trophy case stood out over the marble floor shimmering underneath the bright recess lighting. The glass coffeetable acted as a barrier between the leather love seat and matching couch with a view of the Detroit skyline pasted outside the fogged up windows from the light rain outside. Only Yuuri's laptop with a small pen invaded the glass dining table's surface; Yuuri did most of his work from there.

Dealing with a former world champion was one thing, but Yurio was a whole different story. The Olympics were only a few months away, and Yurio was planning on doing everything to crush both Nationals and the Grand Prix Final before that happened. So the past few weeks had been hard on everybody. Basically, look at Yurio and you die unless you helped him land a quad in practice. Everyone was on edge, so Victor thought it was best to go on vacation. Too bad he forgot when his own vacation would be happening.

Not only that, but Victor went through money like oil through their brand new Jeep. He was pretty sure Victor thought a credit card was just a voucher to get free stuff.

Yuuri sighed and adjusted his drying contacts in his eyes. "Can you just please be more aware of things, Victor. I don't want you getting yourself hurt."

Victor smirked. "You worry too much. This vacation should be for you."

With a flourish, Yuuri cracked open his laptop. "I'll book it. Just don't touch anything."

"Should I clean up the mess?"

"Not one thing, Victor."

Victor plopped himself next to Yuuri on the sofa, resting his head on his shoulders. Quiet moments between them, as unopportune as this one was, had become a rarity in the household. He sighed and stared out at the periwinkle sky shrouding the city buildings. A scented candle burned honeysuckle on the glass coffetable as Yuuri bought new plane tickets.

"I still think Florida would be a better place," Victor said.

Yuuri rolled his eyes. "We already went there."

"For Skate America. Not to visit."

Yuuri clicked a few more buttons on the small laptop. He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses, the reflection of a wooden wall lamp next to the couch illuminating his frames. "Yurio didn't want to go back."

"Yurio isn't a fan of fun," Victor said.

Yuuri chuckled. "Kinda like that guy I taught skating the other day?"

Victor laughed and leaned over on the couch. "He's not that bad," he said to Yuuri. "Just a little aggressive."

* * *

 **Welcome back ladies and gentleman! It's been awhile! However, I have been wanting to fire up the writing fryers and keep my creative juices flowing! so here it is; a sort-of sequel to Detroit and the Good Life With You! If you didn't read it, please do! It may be necessary in order to get some of the references, so a nice read through would help. Regardless, read and review if you can.**

 **And please Review, review, review! It's what I do this for! Even if it's just to tell me how this sucks, please do anything that lets me know eyes are on this!**

 **Thank you so much, and see you soon!**


	2. Episode 1, Part 1: Doping Problems

Yurio's door had been locked for the whole day.

Saffron wood blocked any hope Victor or Yuuri had in trying to reach the now eighteen-year-old blonde. The ivory framing encased him inside, leaving Victor to huff and lean on the cerulean wall beside the door. Sighing, Victor looked over at Yuuri, a small frown of concern painted on his flawless and slim face. Yuuri crossed his thin arms, breathing in the thick scent of honeysuckle wafting from the air freshener plugged into the wall across from the door.

Yuuri ran a hand through his wavy ink hair, grown out to nearly his shoulders from the past few months. He licked his lips and turned back to the door.

"We'll be downstairs if you want to talk."

Not even a curse thrown at Yuuri's direction. That's when they knew Yurio was upset.

Yuuri tapped Victor on his shoulder, nodding at him as they trudged down the spiral staircase.

* * *

Victor Nikiforov was the passionate one.

If passion was a skill needed in life, Victor would be the master of the universe. Whether it was exposing his heart on the ice or to his loved ones, he was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. Some people thought him uncomplicated due to him being an open book. Victor considered himself true to himself.

Whatever he thought about his emotional outpourings, he remained subdued throughout today. When Victor sat down at the glass dining room table, he stirred his lukewarm hot chocolate for what felt like the thousandth time. His phone remained sheltered in the pocket of his sere polyester sweatpants. He shut off his phone many hours earlier. When his phone blared at seven in the morning, Victor let it ring, too comfortable in Yuuri's arms under the lavender sheets. By phone call twenty one, Victor had no choice but to answer. What followed was a minute long tirade from Yakov in Russian.

Victor could barely catch the words before Yakov shouted that he had to hang up to eject some nosy reporters from the rink in Moscow.

Doping. Russia. Hush money given out to various athletes. Found out. Olympics. Banned.

Banned.

Victor nearly had a heart attack as soon as the phone call went dead. When he turned on the news, he saw the headlines. Sure enough, his home country was going to be shut out of the Olympics completely.

"He's been training for this moment," Victor said while staring at the chocolate trails swirling around the mug. His spoon clanked with the sides of the porcelain in a nearly hypnotic rhythm.

Yuuri looked up from his steamed rice, fog pasted on the lenses of his oil glasses. "Huh?"

Victor set the spoon down and grabbed the mug by the handle. "He cared about these Olympics. Especially these Olympics."

Yuuri sighed as the fog evaporated from his glasses. He mashed a grain of white rice between his thumb and the ivory marble island in the kitchen. True, Yuuri was not horribly upset or surprised by these events. Victor had confided in him about a few of these situations in his country, and Yuuri was no fan of Russia to begin with. However, he knew the pain of missing out on important contests, and Yurio's success meant more money for the household they had.

He reached over and rubbed the back of Victor's neck in assurance. "He's young. "He'll be twenty-two in four years. He'll still be great."

Victor shook his head. "It's not about being competitive. Yurio's going to skate into his thirties. He just has that energy to him," Victor said before taking a sip of his hot chocolate. "But those others aren't going to be there."

"Otabek."

Victor looked up at Yuuri, his eyes reddening slightly from the saline growing in his bright blue eyes. "Yurio told me about his dream of competing with Beka in Olympics. You know Beka won't be around in four years."

"A lot of those skaters won't be."

Victor drew out a long breath, composing himself before taking another swig from the mug. As he did so, the phone rang. A number from Kazakhstan.

Yuuri took the phone. Putting the sound on speaker, he accepted the call.

"Is Yura okay?" A low, almost monotone voice echoed out into the spacious condominium.

Neither of the two said anything for a few seconds. White rice billowed steam that reflected from the warm recess lighting built into the tall ceiling. A cuckoo clock ticked by the front door.

Yuuri cleared his throat. "Has he texted you today?"

"Nothing," Otabek said over the phone.

"Then he really hasn't talked to anyone today," Yuuri said more to himself than anyone else.

Victor balled his fists, shaking his head in agitation. "It's not right, Beka. He had nothing to do with this. You know that, right?"

"Not for a second did I think he was," Otabek shot back at the two. "Yura wouldn't even look at anything like that. I believe him and I trust him. He doesn't have to say anything to me. I just want to know if he's alright."

Victor's eyebrows jumped up. He swallowed in a flash and tightened up his shoulders. "He hasn't left his room all day."

Otabek sighed. Yuuri squeezed Victor's shoulders in assurance as they looked down at Otabek's face on the phone. "Okay. Tell me if anything changes. I've called him thirty times and texted him at least every ten minutes. I can't reach him."

"We'll work on it," Yuuri said. "If he doesn't come out by tonight, we'll take the door down ourselves."

Otabek hung up. The phone flashed back to it's home screen.

Victor brushed away a tear. He knew he would be a target of many questions from the media. Possibly, he would be brought in for questioning by his government and even the Olympic Committee. Being a coach of an Olympian from Russia would certainly raise issues with him. He was shocked that the press weren't already pooling outside his building like piranhas circling around a dead fish carcass in the Amazon. Yakov would have his hands fuller than a doctor performing neurosurgery. Not only was he a coach of many years that Russia had relied on to provide many Olympic figure skaters, but Georgi and Mila were poised to be on the Olympic Team as well.

Yuuri still had no idea what to think. He knew any line of questioning would be offensive at this point, but he needed to get his facts straight.

"Victor?"

The man looked up at Yuuri. Tears were streaming down his face. His gray hair, normally nice and neat, was frazzled and oily from lack of wash. He appeared to have aged by decades, the shadows of the sun setting behind the skyscrapers outside jumping over his face.

"I wouldn't even try it, Yuuri." Victor said. "They pressured me, but I said no to so much money. And Yurio...he wouldn't either. I protected him from ever being asked that stuff. He would never try anything like drugs."

"Yeah, he is kind of a prude that way."

Yuuri and Victor looked up at the intruding voice.

The young woman's wheat hair remained short and in the neat pixie cut that had grown to almost a bob style that framed her heart-shaped face. Her thin, slightly curved figure donned a periwinkle sweater with skin-tight jeans around legs that snaked down to her maroon rain boots. Wearing a small grin, her dark royal blue eyes sparkled by the glass chandelier hanging over the island in the kitchen. She threw her backpack towards the wall, and she strutted towards the couple at the table.

Isabel Flynn took a small thumb and wiped away one of Victor's tears. "You don't look good being all melodramatic, Victor."

Victor sniffled and etched a small smile on to his puffed face. "It's been a long day, Izzy. Was school okay?"

Isabel snort. "Has Yurio jumped off the roof yet?"

Yuuri shrugged. "He's been locked in his room all day. At least we assume he is in there."

Isabel ticked a few times with her tongue. "I haven't seen him this upset since I told him _Mean Girls_ wasn't real."

Victor traced a circle on the glass surface in front of him. There were very few ways they could coax Yuri out of his room. If even Otabek couldn't reach him, there was no way in hell his girlfriend would get him to face the world.

Yes, that's counter-intuitive, but Yurio was an odd ball in his own special way.

* * *

Isabel Flynn was the funny one.

There were a couple of ways people defined funny. In Detroit, the older folk that rambled around the bus stops with cracked plexiglass referred to funny as "really weird or off-putting." To the crowds of businesspeople sauntering down Congress Avenue with long cocoa trench coats and swinging briefcases clacking by the sides of their black penny-loafers, funny was "funny-looking" which was a nice way of saying ugly. To Isabel and Yurio (and perhaps even Yuuri's) generation, funny was supposed to mean humorous or something that illicit a laugh.

Isabel Flynn fit the phrase in a number of ways. Yes, her earlier days of having nothing on television but old sitcoms and screwball, razor-sharp witted comedies gave her a funny bone of titanium. She always had a quip or word to bury in edgewise when Yuri had a mean remark about something.

Was she funny-looking? Nope. Isabel had the looks to rival the covergirls on a magazine. Not that she flaunted those looks, because they were certainly not what convinced Yuri to be her boyfriend. However, her attractiveness was a decent resume-builder.

No, Isabel Flynn was weird and maybe off-putting. She was random, hyper like a jack-in-the-box ready to erupt. She was spontaneous to the point of taking Yuri to crevices of Detroit that he did not know (or wanted to know) existed. A wide smile was planted onto her face like cement gluing a handprint onto the surface of the street. She just seemed to happy and too bubbly all the time. Being around her was exhausting. It explained why Yuri was sleeping in until noon almost everyday at this point. Training for the Olympics took up almost as much energy for Yuri.

Maybe that was why it took so long for her to get close friends like the ones she had now. Nobody really took her seriously until now.

Perusing such philosophical musings was way too much effort, though. So Isabel found it necessary to focus more on the tempura fish in front of her. One wrong move, and the fish would splatter into the sizzling pan underneath her and splatter third-degree-burns all over the kitchen. Coconut oil popped in anger with heat tickling the bottom of the copper-plated saucer. Cooking were some of the few times Isabel was completely focused and concentrated to the point of not blabbering a mile a minute.

"I had never expected our first teacher to be so weird. Cannabalism is not normally done in America as far as I know."

The rail-thin boy had white hair much like the parmesan cheese spilt on a wooden cutting board next to him. His shirt, matching his hair, neatly tucked into his long pants. Much like Isabel, he had a smile always at the ready. However, his smile was less wild and more placid than Isabel's. Isabel first noticed his eyes were crimson like an albino bunny. She didn't want to be too rude, so she decided not to ask him about it yet. She liked him as a chef partner even though he made no sense half of the time. He spoke in a weird way about the future and classical music and these weird creatures that apparently destroyed the world and giant robots that tried to save them. Isabel assumed he was some geeky fanfiction writer.

It was a weird class in the finest culinary school in Detroit. Almost everyone had weird hair, and many hailed from other parts of the globe. Isabel had no idea the school was this famous. It appeared everyone that wanted to be a chef was in the large kitchen classroom.

"Even my friends in Japan did not partake in it," the boy said in a smooth, even tone. "But to hear Mister Kaneki say that he had feasted on people multiple times was so atypical to what I normally hear humans consume."

"It died out a few years ago," Isabel said. She bit her lip as she lowered the tempura with the gentleness of a nurse delivering a baby.

"You previously said that about Angels, didn't you, Isabel?"

"A lot of things die out quickly, Kaworio."

"I appreciate the compliment, but Kaworu will suffice," the albino boy said with his grin.

"Compliment?"

"You mention your significant other with the 'io' suffix. So you must view me in such a way as well."

"Thanks, but Yurio isn't into open relationships. I thought you had a boyfriend."

"Shinji is a boy who is a friend."

Isabel slid the tempura onto the saucer. the oil burst to life with a cacophony of sizzles and pops that lifted thick steam into the busy air. The kitchen was filled with the hiss of cooking and the cursing of students. With the tempura safely on, she stood upright and wiped her brow. Grinning, she looked over at the clock on the monitor.

"Still time to season the asparagus. Get the cilantro."

Just as Kaworu went to grab the spices, Isabel felt the vibration in her apron pocket. Peering into the pocket, she saw her phone rivet with the urgency of ambulance lights. Puzzled, Isabel hummed to herself as she pulled out her phone. When she read the words in the text, her heart plummeted to her stomach. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand.

Then, she realized her glove held traces of pepper.

She nearly keeled over from both the shock and the pepper burrowed in her nose. She wheezed out and coughed away from the food, hunched over as she processed what she just read.

"May I join in, Isabelio?"

Isabel cleared her throat and looked up. Kaworu held a green container in his limp hand.

"What?" Isabel huffed out.

"You were holding your phone in front of you. That's what humans consider a 'selfie' around this area, correct?"

Isabel ripped off her apron and gathered up her bag. "I have to go. You can finish this off."

Just as she left, she whipped herself around, looking back at a content Kaworu. "By the way, that's dish soap in your hand."

Kaworu looked over at the bottle in his bony hand. "But cilantro tastes like this, right?

* * *

Knock.

"Kitty."

Knock.

"Kitty."

Knock.

"Kitty."

A thump from the other side of the door reverberated around the hallway. The wall shook with a painting of white skates jiggling on it's hook beside the frame.

"Leave me alone," the voice shouted from the other side.

Victor put a soft hand on Isabel's shoulder, sighing as the vibration halted on the wall.

"He's been like that all day," Victor said. "Nothing is getting him out of there unless it's a fire. And even that might not be enough."

Isabel reached out towards the golden doorknob like a snowflake falling on the cracked pavement outside. She touched the doorknob. The cool metal glistened from the pale sunlight gleaming from the start of the wide hall. She gripped the bulb and blew out a warm breath of air into the lukewarm atmosphere. Victor took a step back and released Isabel.

"Have you tried the doorknob yet?" Isabel said while looking back at Victor.

"No. I value my life," Victor said. "You know he's going to have a knife and a machine gun on whoever goes in there."

"Well, If I do die," Isabel said in mock terror. "I leave all of my things to you, Victor."

The Russian man clutched his chest. "An honor. Thank you, Izzy."

Isabel, unsure if Victor was serious about the warning, gulped. Staring at the door, she reflected on how she was going to confront Yuri. Obviously, telling him everything alright would not work. He would probably chuck her out of the room faster than Victor flashing his quad salchow at the last Olympics. Telling him that the next Olympics would be in four years would result in a similar response. Sure, she could just try and bribe him with some American movie. Perhaps _Mean Girls_ would be the only American film Yuri would appreciate.

There was the option of making out with him, but Yuri was not one to give in to his hormones. He was a weird teenager that way.

"Izzy?"

"Yes, Victor?"

"I hate to be impatient, but you've been standing there for ten minutes."

Isabel looked back towards the door. The silence inside shrouding a heartbroken young man.

Finally, Isabel frowned. Snapping on a brave face, she bucked up her shoulders and twisted the knob.

* * *

 **Welcome back ladies and gentleman.**

 **So this is episodic in nature. Think of this series like a sitcom. It won't be a long 3 arc story like Detroit and the Good Life With You. It's more slice-of-life. I really hope you read and review. Without reviews, we are just writing for ourselves. I want to entertain you all as well!**

 **So what did you think? The doping scandal is a big deal, and we will talk about that in this first episode. Also, what did you think of the characters? Story? Dialogue?**

 **And please tell me you got the references to the other anime. I think this series will be chock full of them.**

 **Thank you so much. See you soon!**


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